


Reclaimer

by ravenously



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Blood, Bucky Barnes and Winter are different people, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Violence, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only thing that makes their captivity better are the stories of Bucky's youth. It's a pity their handlers keep taking the memories away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reclaimer

Bucky sits up slowly, aware of the eyes tracking his every move. Three fucking weeks of this, and it still makes the hair on the back of his neck whenever the Asset does nothing but stare at him with his untrusting, disimpassioned gaze. The Asset is clean for once, evidently given a day of no training, no torture and torment for once.  
Or maybe it’s because it’s Bucky’s turn. 

His muscles creak and pop and he can feel several of the lacerations on his back open up and starts oozing blood slowly, but he just ignores it. It hardly even hurts, but then again, Bucky’s pain receptors are a bit shot at this point. His muscles protest, and he can’t sit up without support for too long and is forced into propping his body up at the wall. 

The asset tracks his injuries silently with a critical look, sitting up straight and proper in the center of his cot. Bucky can see fading bruises on his arms and thighs and stomach, and they must have been extreme if they’re still there on his body, still marring him. He’s been fading in and out of awareness, and his memory is still so fuzzy of the last week. “Did’ya go yesterday?” He’s pretty sure he slept all day, just healed and tried not to stay conscious for any extended period of time. So if the Asset moved from his normally motionless spot, Bucky didn’t know. 

But as it is, the Asset nods slowly, eyes narrowed and flicking around as he tries to muster up the words. It’s the one thing that Bucky can confidently say he’s better at- speaking. Bucky’s not sure if the handlers and scientists forgot to add that part of himself to the asset, if it was on purpose, or if all the abuse cracked through the asset’s ability to talk correctly, but whatever it if, it always takes him an astounding amount of time to get a thoughts out.

He’s much more suited to silent brutality. Bucky’s under no illusions that the scientists are getting bored with him and much prefer their pretty asset. He takes pain better, listens better, and doesn’t backtalk all the fucking time. 

If only they could get rid of that nasty anger issue that only Bucky can control.

“Almost broke my femurs.” He gestures emotionlessly at his bare legs- they aren’t allowed clothes when they’re in their room together, for fear of some fucking suicide pact- where the brutal bruises from before stand in sharp relief to his pale, pale skin. Much paler than even Bucky, because as far as Bucky knows, the Asset has never gone outside.

Bucky raises a brow instead of sighing at the horribleness of the whole deal, quirking up a mild smirk. “Oh yeah? What made them stop from going the whole way?”

“I broke theirs.”

Well. That’s certainly one way to do it. Of course, that’ll make more trouble for Bucky and the Asset in the long run. And that’s the real reason Bucky’s put in charge of the Asset’s anger and violence issues. Not only can he control him and gear him down a lot, but if he fails, the handler’s have an excuse to beat him for fucking up.

Bucky sighs, turning his lips down disapprovingly. “You gotta stop doin’ that, pal. Trust me. Let ‘em break your femurs. It’ll make things easier in the long run.”

The Asset scowls at him, but his gaze has lost its sharpened predator’s look, a flash of confusion spinning through the irises. He clenches his fists on his thighs, stares at Bucky as though waiting for more. 

“Y’re just making trouble for me ‘n you. Why’d you think they made you? They tore out every nasty bone in my body.” He stands up slowly, pitching sharply to the left for a moment before managing to shamble across the tiny room and onto the Asset’s bed. Sure, he’s still bleeding slightly and will get blood on his other’s bed, but the Asset won’t care. He’s slept in gore before.

The Asset stares at him while he clambers up, mindful of his injuries, and only shuffles to one side of the bed when Bucky kicks at him. He ends up leaning against the Asset, the other’s flesh hand hesitatingly moving up to pull Bucky against him. He may be almost nothing but dark psychopathy swirled in the general shape of a human being, but he’s been nothing but gentle with Bucky- Except for a few key times- doting and impressionable on no one but himself. 

“They wanted you to be strong, but they wanna control you. It’s easier if you just agree.” Bucky stopped trying to examine if he’s a horrible person or not three years ago. He thinks he might be, but then again, he doesn’t care. He only cares about the Asset, ending the pain, and looking for his next opportunity to end it all.

The Asset whines, buries his face into Bucky’s neck. His hair is always unkempt and uncared for, hanging limp in front of his face. Only Bucky’s allowed to cut his hair- with supervision of course, don’t want their precious belongings to be stabbing themselves, now- and he should probably get on that soon. It’s past his shoulders, now. But then again, so is his. 

Identical fucking twins, the only difference being that the Asset’s got a bright red star painted on his metal arm so that when he’s finally cleared to do their dirty work, the world will know he’s not operating on his own.  
The Asset’s their perfect little toy soldier, except for the fact that Bucky’s the only one he’ll gladly listen to.

“They’re gonna put you in the chair for that stunt. Me too. Pay attention to what you’re doing.” And then, leaning his head down so that the Asset feels nice and comfortable against his neck, Bucky whispers “It’s the only way we’ll be trusted.”  
He whimpers again, and pushes heavier into Bucky’s body. Normally, that’s okay, but he’s feeling pain like a red hot fire truck today, and grunts loudly, pushing on his other so that he can shift on the cot, lay down where he’s able. If the Asset’s gonna hog all his body heat, he’s doing it laying down. 

After a moment, he gets situated and pulls the Asset pliantly down next to him, and he buries his face into Bucky, content as he’ll ever be. He’s seen the Asset smile a grand total of zero times, but sometimes when he’s right against Bucky, the frown lines lessen, the cracks of ice in his head seem to melt a little more. 

The Asset is so stiff and tense; Bucky knows he should tell him a story or something, anything to alleviate the stress, but new stories are getting smaller and smaller in number. The chair isn’t necessary, he knows, but it’s a punishment, and they like to take his memories from him in bits and chunks. Maybe they’ll eventually make him their Asset after all.

But he has to give him something, or else he’ll throw a fit later, and his frown lines will deepen to the point that Bucky’ll think them to be caverns of melancholy. 

It takes longer than Bucky would like to find a new story. His pre-captivity days continuously get blurrier and blurrier, but eventually he lands on a dot of vibrant oil paint and urges it to come to the forefront of his mind, to blossom in color and words for his double.

“This one time, me and Steve scrounged up enough pennies and dimes to go to this small candy store on the corner. This was back in… Probably ’31, so we were… twelve? Maybe. I dunno.”

The Asset listens with rapt attention. You wouldn’t know it, with how still he is and with his face angled into Bucky’s neck, but Bucky knows his tells. The stillness is from breathless hope and excitement, not a lack of care. They think the Asset is an empty husk, and that may be true, but he fills himself to the brim with oil pastels and rivers of colors, a verbal symphony that lands and takes hold right between his ears. 

“Put together, we had enough for a couple’a chocolate bars-“

“Chocolate.” It’s a game they play. A repetition requires an explanation. A question require an even longer explanation.

“Uh, sweet and dark and thick. It’s creamy. Imagine… The sweetest thing you can possibly imagine. Double it by ten and imagine it melting on your tongue and filling your throat.”

“Like blood?”

“No, not like blood, you moron. This is a _good_ thing. Like…” He pauses, purses his lips before shimmying down and away from the Asset for a moment. The Asset whines, trying to wriggle back into his cranny known as Bucky, but Bucky just huffs a laugh and silences him with a soft kiss to his lips. Nothing major- he has to be careful with the Asset’s deadly reflexes- but something sweet and small and tantalizing. 

In a world worse than hell, even the softest of touches is bittersweet, is a reminder of what Bucky’s lost, a reminder of what he wants. And what he wants most of all is to keep them both safe, to maybe get a smile on the Asset’s face one of these days. 

He pulls away after a moment, scoots so he’s sitting up, the only sound in the room their combined breathing. The Asset, still laying down, looks up at him with dazed, half-lidded eyes that almost smile in his eyes. 

“Like that. Imagine that. Only… As food.”

“Chocolate.”

“Yup. Okay…” He focuses slowly, mindful of when the Asset moves his head to Bucky’s lap. He runs his fingers through the unkempt knots carefully, absentmindedly, and continues. “Anyways, we had enough for a couple of chocolate bars and some taffy. We weren’t rich- maybe richer than me’n’you now- so this was an experience. Something we couldn’t always get to. Street rats, y’know?

“We get to this store- and there’s color everywhere. Not like this room, y’know, but like, actual color. Blues and greens and reds and oranges. The fuckin’ rainbow, and Steve’n’me are just gaping. We’re like eleven, so anything bright’s enough to make a kid go fuckin’ nuts.” Not that the Asset would know. He’s never been a child, never would be. Sometimes, his innocence and naivety reminds Bucky of a child, but then he’d go right around and break a handler’s neck with no expression on his face. Eerie.

“Steve spends thirty whole minutes looking for his preferred candy. He wants to make it perfect. Me, I’ve never been choosy. Probably a good thing, now that I think about it. I find my chocolate in a minute flat, grab some caramel or something. I try and make some suggestions to Steve, but he’s so damn picky. Wants things perfect. He’s got your moods sometimes, I swear.”

The Asset looks up at him with shockingly blue eyes, and it’s always strange to Bucky to think he’s got the same pair. Though, he’s certain his aren’t so bright, bright against a pale face and sunken cheekbones. But maybe they are. He hasn’t seen a reflection of himself in almost three months now. 

“He eventually gets his ass in a circle and goes to the very first bar he sees. Picks it up after a half hour of deliberation. Chooses that one. Now me, I’m devastated. Not literally, by the way, y’literal bastard, but figuratively. If Steve or me’d just known that he would choose the first thing he sees, we could been out of this shop twenty minutes ago.” 

The Asset hardly dares to breathe. He loves all of Bucky’s stories, but especially the ones that include Steve (most of them do). He’s got this dazed expression on his face, calm and not _angry_ for once. 

Of course, that’s when the guards step into the room. Evidently, it’s Bucky’s turn. At least, he thinks so. He’s not too good with the Russian language yet, unlike the Asset, who can speak it and other perfectly. Normally Bucky would go pliantly with them, but he’s in the middle of a goddamn story, and that’s all he has these days.

Plus, he knows him and the Asset are going to be punished for the latter’s disobedience, knows they’re gonna be put in the chair and made perfect again.

Perfection is the bane of all words. It’s the clean, it’s the scrubbed. It’s the lack of personality and the lack of faults. Put simply, perfection is a lack of humanity.

Bucky wants to make mistakes. He wants the Asset to know that a mistake won’t cause him to piss blood for a week. He wants the freedom to fail, and the ability to cry without thinking that he’s playing right in their hands.  
But it’s no matter.

He tries to get the guards to calm the fuck down, tries to finish his story. “So we get to the checkout, y’know- Hold on, give me two minutes before you fuck with me please- and pay for our chocolate, yeah, yada yada.” He’s being pulled away from the Asset, his other self being roped into a standing position. Such manhandling in any other setting would incite a violent tantrum, but the Asset’s eyes are solely on Bucky, wide and interested and his face still so soft.

Bucky grunts when he’s pushed roughly, tripping and probably cutting his back open again. “Turns out we bought the same fucking chocolate bar, and I just found that so fucking hilarious that I laughed for a good ten minutes straight.” Bucky hasn’t laughed truthfully in months. Sure, the delirious, manic and unhinged laughs in the face of his captors, the bitter, humorless laugh for himself. But a laugh of mirth and lightness? He hasn’t.

It’s a fact that the Asset does not know how to laugh.

There’s a slap ringing across his face for yelling at the guards to hold the fuck on again, and then a rough shove-punch, he’s not sure. Something hard enough to pop his nose and let blood stream down his face. Neither of them get angry about it. The Asset is still fairly clean, no blood other than smudges of Bucky’s, and he lets the guards restrain him. 

“God, you bastards. Lemme tell a story before you wipe it from my fuckin’ brain, huh? Fucking ruskies.” Bucky growls and is rewarded with a slap hard enough to leave him spinning. He can’t smell anything except the blood pouring from his nostrils and can hardly see anything except for a dizzy image of the Asset still staring so spell-bound.

“Somethin’ so simple coulda been solved in minutes, and yet there we were, wasting all that- fuck- time.” They start to corral him out of the door, half-dragging him because Bucky cannot walk on his legs right now. Even the Asset is weak standing, probably since they tried to break his femurs or something.

They’re put in the chair and buzzing through like an electric storm- Bucky the thunder and the Asset the lightning- and in the end, when they’re disoriented and pliant enough to receive their beatings and bruises without complaint, with sucked in air and hissed out breaths, Bucky can’t remember what he was talking about. 

The memory is gone, and he can’t even remember the details he told the Asset. In its place is slate grey nothingness, except for words. One small sentence, it’s all he can remember, and he cracks his bitter grin later when the Asset is pillowed against his chest, legs wrapped around each other and ribs broken and heaving.

The Asset flicks his eyes up to Bucky when he speaks, rapt as always, even if he can’t remember, either. 

“But, y’know, that’s just Steve Rogers for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come bug me on [Tumblr.](http://buckycurtis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
